On Dragons and Their People Part One: Mortality
by Asher to Ashes
Summary: It occurred to Bilbo that he should be shocked by the naked man lying on his stoop. {Human!Dragons}
1. On Sleeping Dragons

It occurred to Bilbo that he should be shocked by the naked man lying on his stoop.

In all honesty, the middle-aged hobbit had stopped being shocked by things long ago. Some time between 13 dwarves showing up expecting food, Goblin Kings, Rings of Power, Storm Giants and a Dragon, he'd lost his sense of wonderment. He'd learned to stop questioning where things came from, how they came to be near him and what their purpose was, and just accept them into his life. (A rather Tookish thing to do, in his opinion.) After having recently returned from a long time abroad, the simplicity of his home was beginning to -dare he say it?- _bore_ him. A year and a half of whirlwind adventure, and then he was just expected to return home quietly? That was a sin within itself, in his mind. Now, surrounded by his books and neighbors he feasted on what ever shred of adventure he could find. The ones in his book had long since failed to satisfy, however and the stories his neighbors provided rarely included trips outside of the Shire; even when they did there were no dragons, or orcs, or even a decent _king_ to be found. It was all terribly, terribly boring. The naked man was the first relatively interesting thing he'd seen since returning.

How a six and three/quarter foot tall man had gotten all the way into the Shire and Hobbiton without any alarms being raised was beyond him, especially considering there were no clothes strewn about. Stark naked and lying on Bilbo Baggins doorstep. Hm. A most interesting turn indeed. There was no question of whether or not Bilbo would help him, just a question of how he'd get the large human inside. If he was human. His ears were pointed suggesting at least something elven, but there was a strength in his shoulders and legs that gave hints of some activity that should have been beyond the elven scope of pastimes. Bilbo brushed his hands off and put them on his hips. He could contemplate the man's biology later. At the moment, he had to get him inside. The hobbit stooped down and had just grabbed his wrist to pull when a deep, rather worn voice stopped his efforts.

"You'll never get him inside that way."

"Had this event taken place a year and a half ago, Bilbo would have yelped and jumped three feet into the air before promptly running inside and slamming the door shut. In his time abroad, however, he'd come to grow a stauncher stance and to recognize the voice he'd spoke. The hobbit looked over his shoulder and offered the wizard a small, slightly nervous smile.

""Hello, Gandalf.

The wizard withdrew his lips from the pipe he held clenched between his teeth and offered the tiny many a nod. "Good day. I apologize, I thought I would have more time. I hadn't expected him to arrive before I did." The wizrd seemed surprisingly unconcerned, considering there was a naked, possibly injured human on his friend's doorstep. Bilbo lifted an eyebrow.

"And who is him, exactly?"

The wizard sighed and huffed on his pipe. "It's rather long tale. Come, let's help him inside and I shall tell you of it."

-/.\-

Half an hour later, the man was wrapped in Gandalf's travelling cloak and sleeping in Bilbo's bed. Despite how large it might have seemed to its owner, compared to the man, it was tiny. His legs dangled off the end and his arms would have too, had they not been wrapped around his shoulders. Of course, by this point Bilbo was less worried about the state of his bed, and more focused on the pair of emwings /emsprouting from the man's back. He'd spotted them as soon as Gandalf had rolled the stranger over to lie on his stomach. His back was also dotted with burnished crimson scales and a thick, long tail of the same shade of red extended from the base of his spine. How he'd not noticed before was beyond him. Mayhaps he'd been too focused on getting him away from prying eyes.

"It was a glamor." Gandalf murmured, almost as if reading the Hobbit's thoughts. Bilbo found himself briefly wondering whether he could. "I covered his...more _unique_ extremities in an effort to keep him safe until you could find him. You've only just seen him as he truly is because I've released the spell." The wizard grunted as he lowered himself onto a couch -that was more like a chair for him, but no matter. He fit.- and leaned backward, drawing a long breath from his pipe. The old man looked as if he was thinking, and his thoughts were heavy. For awhile, neither of them spoke. Gandalf looked as if he was working through something terrible and confusing and wishing that it wasn't him who had to think on it. "What know you of the rings of power?" It was a strange question, and Bilbo started at it. He hadn't given much thought to those stories since he was a child, but suddenly, the golden band in his waistcoat pocket felt ten times heavier.

"Only what the stories-"

"Histories."

"..._histories_ say. " The furrows on Gandalf's forehead grew even deeper than the Hobbit thought was possible. He puffed worriedly on his pipe, nearly working the end of the thing off in the process.

"Tell me of them." He ordered, and Bilbo scoffed. A comatose man in his bedroom, and the wizard wanted to hear children's tales. "Tell me what you know." The hobbit rolled his eyes but conceded.

"Nine to the kings of men, seven to the dwarves, three to the Elven lords, one to Sauron-"

"And five to the Dragons." Mr. Baggins nearly choked on his tea at that.

"What do you mean by, 'and five to the dragons?'" The wizard chose that moment to fall silent. Bilbo rose, not at all pleased with this information. Since when had any dragon had a ring of power? Who would be foolish enough to forge one for the greedy creatures? As if the fell beasts weren't powerful enough, some poor, deluded soul had thought to empower them by giving them rings? And he knew the stories of those terrible jewels. He knew their maker. "Those rings were forged by Sauron himself, and-"

"No. These rings were different. They were given to the dragons by Sauron's master, an entity with an unspeakable name." A strange silence seemed to fall over all of Hobbiton as Gandalf spoke, lost in his mind while he puffed on his pipe. "These weren't meant to have power. They were for protection." Bilbo's eyebrows furrowed at that. What in Middle-Earth could a dragon have needed with _protection_? Their scales were the hardest substance in Arda, Their king had been so large he could block out the sun, for the love of Iluvatar, they embreathed fire. /emIf there was one creature in creation who did not need protecting, it was the Dragon. He was pulled out of his wonderment as Gandalf spoke again.

"They weren't tangible either. These rings were made solely from magic, bonding two souls together in life or in death. They would feed off of each other, neither one perishing while the other still lived, their lifespans extended exponentially."

"Gandalf you're talking nonsense." It was then that Bilbo saw the wizrd do something he'd never done before: He took off his hat, hunched over, dropped his pipe inside it and resign himself to an air of defeat.

"The rings made it so that the last person to see a dragon before its death -and the last person a dragon saw before dying- would be bound together in an unbreakable bond activating only once all other holders of the rings had. The last dragon in that alliance was killed by Bard of Laketown last year and you were the last one to look upon the Greatest of Calamities before his death. " The Hobbit went silent.

"Gandalf, what are you saying?" His tone was cautious at best, teetering on the edge of a cliff at worst. He wasn't quite ready to take the plunge into the abyss of raging emotions just yet however. Best to have all the facts before unleashing any anger.

"That man in there is a dragon." Baggins closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Through gritted teeth he asked:

"Which. One."

"He is Smaug." He felt his heart drop in to his stomach, but his demeanor did not change, despite the fact that there was now a vey mortal, very real threat in the bedroom down the hall. "And now you have a decision to make, Mr. Baggins." Gandalf gathered his things and began preparation to leave. "I told you once courage was not knowing when to take a life, but when to spare one. You will need your courage about you when he wakes. I do not know if he has any memories of being under the mountain, but if he does, it would be best to keep them hidden for now. Should you choose to let him live. If not...well, I hope you still have that shard of black arrow on hand, for that is the only thing that can pierce his hide." Bilbo nodded and the wizard began for the door, pausing once he reached the low frame. "...and I am so, so sorry, Bilbo."

The hobbit smiled up at him grimly, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. "That's alright. After all, I was the one who asked you for excitement, right?" Gandalf patted the tiny man's shoulder and was off.

Bilbo closed the door after him slowly, hoping at any moment he'd turn round and yell 'surprise!' and this would all be a morbid joke. Being bound to Smaug. After all they'd don to ensure his death. The sliver of the black arrow was sitting on his mantle, shiny and clean, a memento of what was possible when people worked together, and of the terrible price that had been paid for the dragon's demise. It would be easy to walk into his room right now and simply reopen the last wound the arrow had given Smaug, dealing a death blow. But could he? The Baggins pulled down the heavy metal shard and tightened his hand around it, his resolve renewed. He had to. He had to end it now, before more people were hurt because of him. Hobbiton could not go up in flames because he was squeamish. He started for the bedroom, only to realize that his hands were shaking.

Bilbo collapsed into a chair and rested his head in his hand. Could he really kill a man? And could he really do it with conviction? While he was sleeping? A tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered that this was not a man, that this was a dragon and the foulest of all created things, but he shoved it away. He had killed before. Orcs. But that had been to save Thorin's life. Those things had been brutal, mindless savages, following the orders of whatever mastered currently controlled them, without a thought toward loyalty, but dragons were different. They spoke, and had a culture, and were intelligent. They had emotions other than unbridled rage and savagery. He'd seen books in Smaug's keep, giant tomes with pieces of gold marking their pages. He knew he couldn't murder anything that smart, at least not while it was sleeping. He had to give it a fighting chance, despite its past actions. That was the only honorable thing to do. His heart and his mind warred valiantly against each other for another hour before he placed the remains of the arrow back on his mantle and entered one of his spare rooms to sleep.

Little did he know that half a world away, an Elven-King's heart and mind were fighting too, and his heart was rapidly losing.


	2. On Unwanted Dragons

The throne room of the Elven-King reeked of terror.

Any dragon would have been able to smell it: The fear, the agony, the pain. Clear warning signs to stay away and not come in after. Gostír was in the midst of it, and it was she who was emitting a majority of the signals. The few elves who had been allowed in to stand guard had nothing to fear from the bruised, battered and now very mortal dragon that lay bleeding on the floor, but she had everything to fear from the immortal who sat on a throne high above her, legs crossed, watching her with apathy. She'd lost count of how many days she'd spent staring up at that face, how many hours he'd sat stone still, like carved marble, watching her be broken over and over again until he declared the interrogation over for that day. His face had become something of a focal point for her during the sessions. The beams, floors and ceiling would blur, blood would cloud her eyes, but the pale, gleaming face of the Elven-King would remain constant.

And he had such a pretty, _pretty _face.

"From whence do you come?" The interrogator asked. It was the same question, over and over again. At first, she'd made a point of insulting him, using cruel words in the Black Speech that she knew he wouldn't understand. When she'd forgotten how to form the words Morgoth had given her, she'd reverted to Khuzdul, then Sindarin, and finally Quenya. They'd taken her memory from her. She knew nothing during the day but pain and suffering, and nothing during the night but the cold and the dark. They hadn't fed her, and it was showing. Ribs protruded sharply from mithril-hard skin and her once skintight armor clunked loosely about on her frame. They hadn't allowed her to change or bathe, and layer after layer of dried dirt and blood crusted her skin. Her wounds were festering, she was sure and they'd shaved her hair. She was no longer pretty.

"Such a pretty, pretty face..." She murmured quietly, watching the marble king upon his throne. He was not swayed. "Such a pretty, _pretty _face..." The dragoness weakly lifted a hand toward the throne, as if she meant to catch the king's hair between her fingers, but it was promptly crushed under a boot, bones crunching noisily as they were destroyed. Her skin may have retained its hardness, but her bones were as fragile now as any mortal's. She didn't even cry out, golden eyes still fixed on that beautiful face far above her. She knew him from somewhere, she knew she did, but if she had once known, she couldn't remember now. That face looked familiar, but Gostír was used to seeing it in the heat of battle, with flame roaring up behind it, screaming in rage as it slammed a black arrow into her heart. Like the elf at the Fall of Gondolin. There had been someone...

Such a pretty, _pretty_ face.

Her memory came back to her sometimes in spurts she nearly managed to interpret before the king's face interrupted her thoughts. The interrogator slammed something down on her back, something searing hot and she contemplated the pain briefly before being drawn back to her staring. He was tall and pale, his skin like the moon. _She_ was tall -This thought drifted across her consciousness like smoke, barley being bale to be grasped- or, she once had been. She was not pale though, not in this form, not in the last. She saw brief flashes of memories flit before her eyes. Memories of something massive and scaled, with a hide of obsidian. Something winged and powerful. Something deadly and it's name was _right there_. If she could only _grasp_ it...

"From whence do you come!" She ignored him once more, all thoughts turned toward the word...no, no not a word. A _phrase_. It was there! She'd managed to haul it up from the dredges and mire of her nearly destroyed mind and with it came some semblance of sanity. The interrogator raised his hand again to strike her and he brought it down. The blow would have shattered her back had she not caught his wrist. Surprise radiated off of the elf, tinged with a healthy amount of fear. Her head snapped up, golden eyes regarding the pale king upon his throne. Never did his eyes leave her's, never once did he turn away.

"I am Gostír, daughter of Ancalagon, son of Glaurung the emissary of Morgoth and the first-born of the dragons. I am the first of the four hundred. I am the beast of Gondolin." She blinked, lids sliding sideways, and slowly turned her head to look at her interrogator. "And I come from the Dead Lands." The marble king tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes.

"No you're not. I killed that demon myself and burnt it's body. How could you be it?" Just as quickly as it had come, her sliver of sanity slipped away.

"Such a pretty, pretty face..." Thranduil muttered a word in Sindarin and the woman was hauled to her feet and half-dragged out of the throne room and down a corridor to another chamber. She'd be giving them nothing else today. Six months, and they'd finally managed to wring something of import out of her. They'd destroyed her mind, there was no doubt about that, and in doing so had rendered her harmless. He supposed her should have her killed now that her usefulness had expired. He rose and had just begun his descent from on high, when he heard his son's voice.

"When will this cruelty end?"

"When I deem it enough."The prince fell in step beside his father, keeping pace easily despite the older elf's advantage of height.

"Surely you have no further use for her-"

"Whether I do or not is none of your concern."

"Father, she's just a Man." He wouldn't have doubted it an hour ago. Surely the woman's claims held no truth, but the sliver of doubt she'd slipped into his mind was enough to make him think.

"I've executed higher races for less."

"But a Haradrim? And a southern one at that?"

"If she's this far north, she's running from something. No one will come for her."

"You can't possibly know that. What if her people come looking for her and find her bound and shackled like some common animal? The Haradrim are primitive, but they know how to make war-"

Thranduil wheeled round, blue eyes cold as he regarded his eldest child. "Peace, Legolas. This is nothing new-"

"You would do well to listen to your son, Lord of Mirkwood." A voice like the creaking of a great door spoke from behind him. The king composed himself, shoulders sliding down and back, chin lifting slightly as he stretched into his full seven feet and three inches.

"Gandalf. I wasn't aware that I'd requested your presence." The wizened old wizard was standing, staff in hand, in the center of the hall, watching Thranduil with an expression that amounted to mild disappointment mixed with a pinch of irritation.

"You didn't. But it was needed." The elder elf's jaw clenched at that. He could govern his realm without the input of a half-mad old mage. "You know as well as I the truth in the woman's words, son of Oropher. And you know what he appearances forebodes."

"I've no time for myths, Gandalf." He made a move to push past the wizard, but he caught his arm.

"The Greatest of Calamities had already awaken and the Beast is in your possession. Three more have yet to be found." Thranduil's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Legolas, leave us."

"But, Father-"

"Leave us." The prince dipped his head and retreated back toward the throne room, disappearing through an archway. Once he was out of sight, the king spoke once more, tone clipped and void of all civility. "I slated that demon myself. I stabbed it through the heart with a black arrow and I burnt it. When it's scales could not be destroyed by fire, I had it's carcass thrown into the sea and there it has remained for millennia."

"You took the dragon's life, but not it's soul. The soul lives on in that poor creature you've broken and tortured."

"That poor creature murdered my wife and thousands of others. And whatever that..._woman _is, she is not Gostír."

"How else would she know the lineage of the Ancalagonites? She looked in you eyes and she knew you. Any natural Haradrim wouldn't recognize you. She is who she claims to be. Smaug has been taken in by Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit who crossed your path a short time ago. I gave him the option to either kill the creature or spare it. I will not give you the same choice. Your cruelty has already been dealt. You will spare the dragon and you will care for her. Or you will face my wrath."

Just as quickly as Gandalf appeared, he was gone, leaving behind scars centuries old and a vengeful elven king.


End file.
